God Grave

Confessions pt 2

"When we breached that door, it released the unfiltered aetherich that had been building up in the chamber for a decade, it was the kind of exposure that killed." The moment replayed in his mind with perfect clarity—the door coming down, the rush of air that tasted like bronze and ozone, the civilians' faces—fear giving way to confusion as his squad members started falling.

‎"Three soldiers died on the spot. They Just collapsed, as their brains couldn't adjust to the frequency." Joren touched his neck, the gesture unconscious. "Two others developed sensitivity, started hearing things, feeling things they couldn't explain. Command pulled them out within hours, sent them to research facilities for evaluation."

‎"And you got corrupted," Petran said quietly.

‎"Wrong genetics. I had some compatibility markers—enough that the exposure didn't kill me outright, but not enough to develop actual abilities. So my body tried to adapt and failed. The dust got into my cells, my brain, and started breaking everything down from the inside."

‎Petran was silent, processing. When he spoke again, his voice was careful. "What happened to the civilians? The families you found?"

‎This was the part Joren had never told anyone, the part that woke him at night during the few moments corruption let him sleep at all. The part that had turned him from loyal soldier into deserter in the span of a single conversation.

‎"My commanding officer—Captain Veldren— assessed the situation. He saw that we'd lost three soldiers, that two more were compromised by resonance exposure, and that the civilians had witnessed imperial forces dying from divine contamination." Joren's voice went flat, the way it did when emotion threatened to overwhelm control.

‎He forced himself to look at Petran, to see the lad’s reaction. He needed to witness the moment innocence died.

‎"He ordered us to eliminate witnesses. All eighteen or so that remained" The words came out mechanical, emotionless. The only way he could say them. "And we did. We lined them up against the chamber wall—men, women, children who'd done nothing except try to survive—and we shot them. Then we sealed the chamber, filed a report saying we'd engaged armed resistance operatives in a firefight, and returned to base."

‎Petran's face had gone pale even in the starlight. His mouth opened, closed, opened again. "You... all of them? Even the children?"

‎"Even the children."

‎"But why?" Petran's voice cracked. "If they weren't dangerous, if they were just refugees—"

‎"Because they'd seen imperial soldiers die from god-dust exposure that shouldn't have been lethal. Because they'd seen that our equipment failed to protect us. Because they'd witnessed imperial military failing catastrophically." Joren's hands clenched into fists. "The contamination excuse was just that—an excuse. They died because they saw something the empire wanted kept secret."

‎ Petran struggled for words.

The silence that followed was heavy, oppressive. Above, the stars continued their slow wheel across the sky, indifferent to human atrocity.

‎"I couldn't eat for three days after," Joren continued, needing to finish now that he'd started. "Couldn't sleep without seeing their faces. One of the children was maybe six years old. She was holding a doll made from scraps of cloth. And when the order came down, she looked at me like she couldn't understand why the soldiers were pointing weapons at her. Like she thought we were supposed to protect people, not murder them."

‎His hands were shaking. He clenched them into fists, forced them still through will and long practice.

‎"I went to Veldren after the mission to ask him if there'd been alternatives, If we could have detained them, relocated them, done anything except executing them. He looked at me like I was insane. Said contaminated civilians were liability, that the empire couldn't risk the corruption spreading, and that I needed to remember my duty was to imperial security, not individual lives."

‎"So you deserted," Petran said, voice barely audible.

‎"Two months later. I gave myself time to think on what had happened, to convince myself I could keep serving despite what I'd done. But I couldn't." Joren pulled out his knife again, needing something to do with his hands. "The corruption gave me an excuse. Medical discharge was possible—rare, but possible for soldiers with terminal conditions. But I knew they'd send me to research facilities. Use me as test subject until I died or the corruption killed me."

‎"So you ran."

‎"So I ran. Stole medical supplies, falsified discharge papers, disappeared into the Expanse where imperial patrols were sparse enough that a dying deserter wasn't worth hunting." He began the blade maintenance routine again, the familiar motions soothing. "I told myself I was buying time. Finding healers who might treat corruption, looking for resistance networks that could use my skills, doing something that mattered before I died."

‎"Did you find any?"

‎"Rumors. Whispers. Nothing solid." Joren tested the blade's edge, found it sharp enough to split hairs. "Mostly I just survived. Took caravan guard work, avoided imperial checkpoints, tried not to think too hard about the fact that I'd murdered children and was dying because the universe had a sense of irony."

‎He sheathed the knife with more force than necessary. The click of metal on leather was sharp in the quiet night.

‎Petran was quiet for a long time, staring at his hands. When he finally spoke, his voice was thick with emotion. "My family... we were almost like those refugees. When the empire expanded mining operations near our settlement, they gave us two choices: relocate to approved housing or be classified as squatters and removed by force. We relocated. But there were families who refused, who just... disappeared. I always wondered what happened to them."

‎"Now you know."

‎"Now I know." Petran wiped his eyes roughly. "Gods, Joren. How do you... how do you live with that?"

‎"Not well. Not easily." Joren touched his corrupted neck. "Most days I think dying slowly is what I deserve. Punishment for following orders instead of doing what was right."

‎"But you're trying to be better now," Petran said, voice gaining strength. "You're helping Kael and Ilara. You're protecting the caravan. That has to count for something."

‎"Does it? Does helping a few people make up for murdering twenty-three innocents?"

‎"No. But it means you're not the same person who did that." Petran leaned forward, earnest despite his youth. "You learned. You changed. You're trying to do better That matters."

‎Joren wanted to believe him, to think that redemption was possible even for someone with blood on their hands.